That's What You Get
by lydiamartins
Summary: There's nothing more exciting, nerve-wracking, and dramatic than the first day of school on the Upper East Side—except for maybe what happened while getting there. —LylaZac; AU.


**just thought of this, i don't have any guarantees about continual updates but will try to update at least once a month, maybe less once school starts back up in august. primarily an au, because of location (it's set in new york city); it'll be maybe fifteen chapters? there will be a longer A/N at the bottom explaning everything in greater detail, but for now, here's chapter one.**

sum; There's nothing more exciting, nerve-wracking, and dramatic than the first day of school on the Upper East Side—except for maybe what happened while getting there. —LylaZac; AU. R&R.

* * *

**I. NEW START**

* * *

_A light breeze blows through the air, and flashes of paparazzi are seen almost everywhere outside of the iron-wrought gates; oftentimes, celebrities are spotted walking down the streets but are ignored in favoritism of placing select students onto Page Six of the New York Times. Hordes of students flood outside of the Upper East Side buildings, conversing loudly and mostly in animated tones; some keep to themselves, fingers held hesitantly over cellular devices, while others pace back and forth, re-memorizing whatever SAT vocabulary that they had memorized the night before. _

_There are five types of students who attend the prestigious single-gender schools—  
_

_A. The wealthy elitist types—the blue-blooded ones, whose parents and grandparents and so on have attended these schools; what most Upper East Siders refer to as those from old money families. They're normally seen only in the company of each other and make it point to look down upon those associated with new money families.  
_

_B. The rich ones—for the most part, their mothers have died, and their fathers have set aside a commonplace lifestyle to become billionaires and self-made millionaires. These are the type of men that you would see being Time's Man of the Year or featured on the front cover of Forbes; unlike Type A, they constantly need to prove themselves. Whether this is by wearing the newest pair of Louboutins or sporting an exclusively made watch from Switzerland, they do what they need to do to fit in.  
_

_C. Scholarship students—they're not really that rich (and therefore, don't belong at these schools) but they have some sort of amazing talent. Typically, they're either Chinese prodigy pianists or Indian chess champions or something of the like, and the only reason that they're even in here is because they scored highly on their entrance exams. Not as highly as old money students, though. They're the ones who'll grow up to be lawyers and doctors, not trophy wives and fashion designers. _

_D. Lower people—usually from Manhattan, Brooklyn, and occasionally from New Jersey. Enough said about them. If scholarship students didn't belong at these schools, lower individuals definitely don't. _

_E. Rejects—But at least the "lower individuals" have each other. Rejects can be from old money or new money families, but typically, they've done something terribly wrong that forced their parents to disown them. And if you're seen talking to one of the rejects, it shows everybody else (especially the staff) that you don't really care about your reputation. At all. _

_Even more limousines__ pull up on the sidewalk outside of the gated courtyard joining Constance Billiard's School For Girls and St. Jude's School For Boys; a group of three girls step outside cautiously, as though they're desperately trying to hide a secret (and doing a terrible job of it as well), attracting a small amount of attention as their status of newcomers. _

_One of the girls steps out of the group, approaching a St. Jude's boy hesitantly—they make small talk for a minute or so before the girl leans in, whispering a few words in his ear, and then he steps back suddenly, as if shocked. (Not that shocked though, because he should have known that this had been coming along, that this would be inevitable). _

_The school bell rings throughout the courtyard twice, and the students file out one by one. The girl takes a breath and steps back, and he swallows, then turns towards the school doors, joined by another girl who looks less cautious around him. _

_Before she exits the courtyard, the girl looks back—the boy never does. __And you think that he's getting away, and maybe she's letting him go._

_._

_._

_._

**THREE MONTHS PRIOR**

"I'm going to be his _what_?"

Usually, the role of a first-year trainee is limited to filling out paperwork, occasionally attending the classes at mermaid school (okay, a bit more than occasionally, but the teachers were fine if you missed a few classes here and there), and maybe writing up a report for one of the fourth-year trainees after they finished their missions, if they bribed you with pearls and trinkets.

However, some genius had decided that a first-year trainee should take on a mission. Stupid, idiotic mermaids.

"Lyla, darling," her mother drawls, bobing her head above the water, looking extremely out of place that close to the shore—patrolling was a job for underclassmen alone.

"Is this some sort of punishment? Because, I know, the other day, that Nixie and I went off when we were supposed to be patrolling for the Moon Festival, and Sirena had to go blab off about what happened with Land Boy and the Moon Pool, but why do we have to go?" She's almost whining, and Lyla feels pathetic because Sirena's the one to whine, the younger children are the one to whine. She's fifteen years old, almost sixteen. "Because if there's another punishment, I'll take it. Like, literally, any other punishment."

Her mother raises an eyebrow artfully, as though practiced several times—knowing the vanity of her mother, Lyla assumed so. "You are aware that any other first year would be grateful for the opportunity given to them."

"This isn't an opportunity, this is a _death sentence_! Just because I was the one who made the mistake of following Nixie; wait, why can't Nixie take it? She has better grades than I do, anyway. She was the top of her class a few years back, and she's a second-year trainee as well, so it would make a lot more sense if she went."

"How about the both of you go?"

"I'm not going! Why do I have to go? It's really not fair; it was one mistake. I swear, all the rest of the first-year trainees, have probably made that sort of mistake before."

"Exposing mermaid kind to humans? I don't think that any of them have ever gone that far before." Her mother sighs, "Look, this is a good opportunity for you; it's not a death sentence if you're careful. As long as you stick to the rules of the mission, you're going to be fine. After all, it was either this or expulsion from the program."

Lyla gapes, "Expulsion?" Because it was one stupid mistake, and she hated how her mother was acting as though it was this make it or break it sort of thing, but maybe it was important. Just not _this _important. "Anyways, what's the mission?"

At the very least, it promised to be exciting. Exciting was good. The only exciting thing that ever happening in the Pod was Initiation Ceremony for the first-year trainees, and that was once a year; Moon Festival was reserved for third-years and above. Just a few more years, and she would actually be respected: not because her mother was the Head of the business, basically a goddess among the mermaids, revered above all, but because she had made it through the ranks on her own (at least partly).

She wouldn't even be in the Academy without her mother's help, whether Lyla liked to admit it to herself or not. Her grades were often below average, and her skills were seriously lacking. "You're going to be going on land; the human boy who went into the pool a few weeks back, he's developed, how do I say this..._powers_."

"Powers?" Lyla raises an eyebrow, "So, is he a mermaid now or something?" Because there aren't male mermaids. There just aren't. At least not for a while, at least not in the Pod—and life outside the Pod was unheard of. "Because if you want me to go onto land and teach him how to control his powers, you've picked the wrong trainee. I'm a first-year; I'm just learning how to control my own powers."

"Well, you won't be going alone."

"Great! So, you're going to bring along some third-years who actually know what they're supposed to be doing? Because you can't expect a few first-years to go on there own, without any sort of assistance, now could you?" Her mother totally could, but Lyla decided not to voice that opinion. "How long is this mission going to be, though? A few days seems okay."

Her mother only laughs, "Darling, a few days is how long a Rank II mission takes for the seventh-years, and they've basically graduated from the Academy in just another few years. You're a first-year, and this is a Rank IV mission."

"Is the boy really that important?"

"You have to understand that the boy isn't important at all, but he's a human, and he's not really aware of the capability of his powers. Or what would happen if he exposed his powers. It wouldn't be long before the rest of the humans decided that mermaids were some sort of new trend and started looking for them; what you did a few weeks back, that one mistake? It threatens the existence of merkind, itself."

"Wonderful," Lyla drawls out. "Just wonderful."

"Don't give me that tone," her mother reprimands. "The two other girls who were with you that day; I think that their names are Nixie and Sirena? They'll be joining you on your mission."

Lyla groans, "But Sirena's a first year! Nixie's a second year, yes, but what does that even mean? In my opinion, all that means is that she's a few months older than I am—after all, we did go to the same Junior School together—and maybe she's learned a few more tricks about levitation, but seriously, this isn't fair. I should be doing community service, not going on a mission."

"It's final," her mother purses her lips together. "This is what you deserve."

* * *

"She's sending you on a mission?!"

"Shut up Erik! I don't want the whole pod finding out about this."

The two of them are in the middle of the library, her leaning against a bookcase, him mindlessly looking through shelves of books for anything on typical mission procedure with humans; Nixie sighs, and turns around, eyes flittering over to the RESTRICTED SECTION on the other side of the library, wondering if the librarian would ever notice if she crept in there.

Even if she did get caught, it would be worth it.

Going on a mission without that much experience? Complete death sentence. Pretty cool, though; it would be nice to know what a mission would be like. A few years from now, when she was going on missions all the time, Nixie would be able to say things like _The last time I went on a mission _and _Missions used to be much more interesting than this_, like she had overheard some of the upperclassmen say. "Why? I would."

Nixie rolls her eyes, "Yeah, well that's because you're a prick."

"Ouch."

"The truth often is, as you so properly denoted it, _ouch_." She sighs, "Well, are you going to help me or not?"

"I still don't understand why you need my help. Why can't you just ask one of the professors?"

"Are you serious?" She sighs, setting down the books she had collected on a nearby table and leafing through them, eyes mindlessly skimming across the pages without really understanding the text. "I'm a second year. I don't even know how I got this mission in the first place, especially because there are two first years below me also included in the mission, but do you know what that means? You don't obviously, so let me spell it out for you. It means that I'm basically put as the leader of the mission—somebody thinks that I'm capable enough."

"If you are capable enough, then you would remember typical mission procedure."

"Well, it's not my fault that I forget these things—honestly, there are a lot more important things to remember than how to retrieve files from the database on targets."

He leans across the table, a look of suspicion crossing his face. Nixie knew that Erik still didn't trust her: the fact that she had actually received a mission was still mind-boggling to her. Nevertheless, Erik—the one person in the Pod (besides her parents, who she barely even knew) who was supposed to know her better than anybody else, and have trust in her—believed that she was probably going to die on this mission was a little more than a bit disheartening. "What's your mission about it, then?"

"I can't tell you!" She exclaims. "You'll try to take my mission away from me, or worse, attempt to help me with it, and then end up ruining everything."

Erik looks more than a bit offended at the remark, and raises his hands, "You know what, I've got better things to do with my life then

"Then why are you her—oh, shit." She suddenly notices Lyla—the other girl who's going to be on the mission, one of the two first-years—and feels a sudden need to impress. "Shut up and start quizzing me on second year exam stuff," Nixie commands, looking Erik straight in the eye, almost a pleading expression crossing her face.

"Why—"

"Just do it!" She almost screams, ignoring that the Number 1 Rule of the Library is _to stay quiet and orderly at all times._

"Uh, okay; so hypothetically, you're on a mission and a human you come across possesses a mermaid ring that has been enchanted to work with even those who do not have powers. Said human does not know of the powers, but could know of them, and wishes to keep the ring when you ask the human about it for 'sentimental reasons'. Do you, a) contact the Improper Use of Magic Office, b) file an inquiry to Department of Human Relations, c) your professors, d) steal the ring, or e) ignore the situation and move on with your life?"

Nixie scoffs, "That was the worst worded question of a second-year examination that I've ever heard of."

Erik shrugs, "Yeah, well it's not my fault that I haven't looked over second-year stuff in what's probably forever."

"Stop being such an idiot; you're only a third-year, Erik, not a tenth year. You know what, I bet that you've never even gone a mission before."

"You're right, I haven't." He looks to the far right for a moment and swears underneath his breath, "Good luck then, alright? You'll be fine."

* * *

"The two of you are complete idiots," Sirena decides.

They're stranded, possibly in the middle of nowhere. Their human legs are nowhere to be seen; there's this bit of land about twenty miles from where they are, some sort of beach, but it isn't as though they can just swim up to the beach and expect that none of the humans are going to question their scaly tails or their lack of proper clothing. "It's not my fault," Lyla lashes out. "Just because Nixie thought that she knew how to do this, it doesn't mean that it's my fault for getting us to the wrong destination."

"What do you mean it's my fault?" Nixie exclaims. "I'm a second year, for God's sake! The bunch of you are children, compared to me, and I know more about mermaid kind, and how to control my powers, and just everything in general. I'm superior in every single way."

"You sound like an entitled snob."

"I am an entitled snob," Nixie retorts. "Don't you remember our covers? Apparently, we're snobby idiots—thank Merlin, we get to actually keep our names, because I don't think I could manage having a fake identity and having a cover as well."

"Yeah, well, thankfully, some of us can handle something as simple as this," Lyla bites back. She wonders for a moment why she's blatantly lying; it's not as though any of them have any experience in mission work, and Nixie probably knows a lot more about mission procedure, but for some reason or another, Lyla's never really taken a liking to the girl.

It takes thirty-five minutes and twenty-two seconds—Lyla knows, she timed it herself; she nicked this timepiece device off Aquata at the farewells near the end of the ceremony. It dangles off her wrist awkwardly, and the timepiece beeps for a moment before the numbers disappear off the screen. "Okay, so do the two of you have any idea what we do know?"

It's then when she looks up and notices that they're almost at the shore, and they still have their tails and their unfortunate clothing (or thereof, lack of clothing), and the sandy beach looks more crowded than necessary, as though people have gathered in advance and are just waiting for the girls to humiliate themselves and expose all of mermaid kind to the human world. "Yeah, of course," Lyla nods confidently. _Fake it until you make it, _she reminds herself. _Maybe if you do well enough on this mission, you'll get bumped up a year. You deserve it, of course._ "All we have to do is stand on the shore, and then everything should fix itself from there."

Nixie barks out a laugh, "You think it's that easy? We just walk up on the shore; Actually, if you can't remember, we can't walk up on the shore with our nails, so stop pretending like you know it all, because it's not as though you've been on human land before anyways. All you know about the human world is that

Sirena sighs, "The two of you need to stop fighting so that this mission can actually go successfully. So, we can try going on the shore, some part where there aren't any humans, and then everything will be fine, okay? You just have to have trust—"

"Faith, trust, and pixie dust!" Nixie exclaims in a mocking tone. "I don't understand how the two of you can have this much trust in this mission. It's obviously a death sentence."

"Oh, really?" Lyla raises an eyebrow, "If you haven't heard—and I'm guessing that you have, being a second-year and all—but my mother's the one who organized the mission in the first place. She wouldn't have sent me off on a death sentence. I'm her only daughter after all, the heir to the corporation if I'm lucky enough."

Nixie rolls her eyes, "Just because she's your mother, doesn't mean that she cares that much about you. Believe me, adults are great at pretending to get whatever they want to be done. You of all people should understand that. It's not as though your mother just got to that place overnight."

"She's not a gold-digger," Lyla spits back, "If that's what you're implying."

"I'm not saying that she's a gold-digger. All I'm saying is that people have a way of tricking you to think that they want you to do something because it's for your own good, but let's be honest. Most of the upperclassmen girls have already been sent off on their missions months ago. We're probably the only people with enough demerits—"

"I've never actually gotten a demerit," Sirena interrupts. "I haven't done anything wrong, and if what you're saying Nixie, if that's true, then I don't know what I did wrong to deserve this sort of punishment."

Lyla rolls her eyes, "Oh, don't pretend as though you're some naïve child! You've made mistakes, all of us have, and you probably applied for this place, or at least you applied for a mission." She shrugs her shoulders after a few moments of silence, "Alright, if you won't admit it, then I'll admit it—I applied to have a roll in a mission months ago."

Nixie sighs, "Yeah, I did too. Didn't think that the request would actually go through, though, what with my barely-there grades and my abilities, they're seriously suffering, I swear, I'm not supposed to be like this."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lyla asks. "Actually, you know what, never mind, we don't have time for this bonding nonsense. Right now, all we need to do is focus on the mission. And the only way that we're going to focus on the mission is if we find a way to get on shore, transform our fins into legs—shoot, I don't know the spell for that."

"What do you mean you don't know the spell for that? You were the one who was supposed to go to the library and figure everything out; I would have done it myself, if I had known that you would be so careless. This is a death sentence, I swear."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, you keep on telling me that. But don't pretend as though this is all my fault. You could have done a bit of research instead of wasting your time traveling the seas—yeah, that's right, I know what you actually do when you pretend to be studying. I spend most of my time in the library, so believe me, I know every single mermaid who's in there."

Nixie laughs, "Well, obviously I like traveling. There's no point in just studying for these exams that I'll be taking in eight years, day in and day out, not really. Because sometimes, don't you think that life should be more than this?"

Lyla raises an eyebrow, "Stop talking as though you're some sort of existentialist professor. You're not wise, you're young and naïve, we all are, and that's okay." _At least for now it's okay. But naiveté gets you killed, _she reminds herself, _naiveté is the reason you're not doing well in the world. You have to be wicked, or at least slightly shrewd, to make your way up. That's the only way, of course._

"Oh, and you would know, of cour—Where's Sirena?" Nixie suddenly blurts out, looking around for the not so familiar face. "I swear, she was right behind me—"

"Oh god. We lost her. She was eaten by the sharks, I swear."

"Whatever you say. You know what, I don't think I'm the only one who explores. There's no way that you could know what a shark is unless you've taken some sort of Human Studies Class—and we only take those in seventh year, and you're just a lowly first year, no offense."

"Well, offense taken. So stop offending me and focus on finding Sirena! I can't believe that you lost her!"

"She's an actual person, and she's not a baby, so I didn't lose her. It's not my fault that I took my eyes off of her for just a few seconds, and voilà, the sharks came up behind her, swallowed her in their jaws—she's probably dead by now, if you think about it." A light breeze rolls through the waves, and a few dots of red liquid spill over the surface. "Yeah, that's probably her blood."

Lyla closes her eyes, pursing her lips, before blinking, trying to calm herself down. Her mother had always taught her to count to ten to control her anger; she couldn't control her powers with stray emotions, and unstable would be a nice word to describe her always agitated mindset. "You could at least try to be a bit sensitive."

Nixie shrugs, "It's not as though I knew Sirena. Sure, I knew of her, I've heard of her as being this stupidly nice person, and her older sister's Aquata, and I know that she's a first year, but we're not friends or anything like that. If she dies, it's not going to affect me. Actually, if I think about it, her death would be a wonderful thing. Just one less person in the whole race to get up to the top of the social stratum."

"You're horrid," Lyla blurts out. "Completely and utterly horrid."

"I don't care if I'm horrid, but I'm not that. I'm just detached from silly emotions, because emotions will get you nowhere. Emotions will drive you insane and then if you're too emotional, well, I guess that you're almost human then. I don't want to be a stupid human. I don't." A ripple of waves forms next to them, something akin to the sound of a stone skipping across water, coming from an unknown direction. Then another, and another. "What the hell."

"Oh," Lyla smiles, "I guess we found her—maybe this mission won't completely fail after all."

* * *

An air of humidity brushes through the air, the dampness sticking to the bottom layer of the air. Without the constant relief of the cool water, it seemed as though the summer months would be unbearable, at least without a good dose of air conditioning and allergy medication pills. The three of them—Lyla, Sirena, Nixie—make their way through the busy streets of the Lower East Side.

Vendors selling hot dogs and tailors sewing up shoes line the sidewalks; a stray goat wanders the streets, and a man sits upon the goat, ringing a golden bell which rests upon the goat's neck. Buildings raise to heights which seem infinite, most of them charcoal-colored; women in pastel colored business suits and men in three-piece suits enter these places as quickly as they exit them; a group of brown-haired girls in their teens lug oversized shopping bags, overflowing with light pink tissue paper, the silver symbol of Bendel's upon the bag's covers. "See, we should be like them. They're probably snobby idiots too," Sirena makes the mistake of saying.

Almost immediately, as though these girls have supersonic hearing, or something like that, the first one turns around and faces them, quickly scanning them through her oversized Chanel sunglasses, obviously tinted. She looks at them as though she's studying their newest victims before breaking out in a smile, clasping her hands together, speaking in a saccharine voice, "You must be the new girls."

The three of them quickly exchange glances of confusion and suspicion before Sirena nods, her blonde girls bouncing a bit too much for the whole situation to be believable. "Yeah, we just arrived here."

"Where are your parents?" One of the other girls speaks up. "Do you need us to call them for you?"

It's only then when the there girls look down at their clothes and notice that they probably don't fit in here—of course, the Lower East Side (at least to them, so far) seems as though it's a melting pot, from the lowest of the low to middle-upper class people who flock near the fountains, aimlessly feeding bread to ducks in the pond when the fancy strikes them. "Uh, actually," Sirena speaks up, pulling a slip of paper out of her bag. "I was given this number, this fellytone number for this woman who's going to take us in."

The red-haired girl smiles, "Are you a foreign exchange student or something like that? Or maybe you're an Aboriginal?" The other girls laugh, as though this is the most innovative insult in the history of civilization, or perhaps because they're nervous, tittering. "Because nobody calls a cellular device a fellytone, not unless you're not English. And you look American. Your accent's a bit off though, Australian, maybe?"

Sirena nods. "Australian," she affirms. "Sorry, my English is not very good, but could you please tell me how I can find this woman's home from this number?"

The girl laughs, "I'm Kati by the way, Kati Gillan. And you can't find out somebody's address from their phone number. But, if you call their number from your cell phone, or any one of these payphones across the street," she motions to the bright blue boxes, "Then I'm sure you'll be able to find your way. Welcome to the Upper East Side, girls!" She grins, almost maliciously, before heading off, minions and bags in tow.

"I don't get this," Lyla immediately blurts out, "I don't get any of this. What's Australia, and Sirena, where did you get that number? Is my mother, or did my mother tell you something that she didn't tell us? Because, believe me, secrets can't work in a mission."

Nixie laughs, "What would you know about mission procedure? You're the one who got us stranded here in the first place. If you had studied a bit harder, then maybe you could have learned how to use that device properly and we would have ended up in the human's house than in the middle of whatever this annoying place is."

"It's not my fault, it's not my fault, it's not my fault," she repeats. "Okay? Good. Now that we've got that done, Sirena, you should answer my questions. It's the only way this is going to work, if we have trust among us."

Nixie reluctantly nods along with Lyla. "Fine," Sirena says. "I'll tell you everything. But first, food. I'm famished."

* * *

"And exactly how many human books have you read so far?" Sirena asks, incredulously, letting the smell of the fresh baked bread waft over her nostrils before practically devouring the food.

Nixie shrugs, leaning back in the wooden seat, "Enough to understand human life, for the most part."

"You should have handled those girls back there, the pretentious, annoying ones. You would have done a fantastic job with them, at least from what you know about humans."

"I know about humans, but it doesn't mean I understand them." She sighs, "Basically, I know all these facts about humans—I know that on average they consume one thousand, two hundred calories a day. They play sports and recreational activities. They want love and care; some want that more than anything, some want success, and what a person does to achieve their goals sort of defines them. But I couldn't possibly pretend to understand what a human is like because then that would mean I would have to be one of them."

"What's so wrong with being a human?"

Lyla rolls her eyes, "Do the two of you even understand that we have a mission?"

Sirena laughs, "We also have three months to get the mission accomplished, so how about you to take a chill pill and try to enjoy these three months instead of pretending as though the moment you get back, your life will be better, because let me tell you something, you're a first year. I'm a first year too. I'm still going to be a first year after this mission is over, and so are you."

"Not if I can help it," Lyla speaks quickly, words jumbled.

Nixie purses her lips, pushing away the mango-flavored smoothie. "I'm guessing that this has something to do with your mother and how she has all these connections, and maybe if you just proved yourself to your mother, you could advance up a year. Or two, if you're pushing it. Well, good for you, but I'm going to plan to somewhat enjoy these three months, because honestly, maybe I'll never be in the human world again—"

"What's that supposed to mean? Were you actually serious about how this is a death sentence?" Lyla asks.

"Well, of course I was! Did you really think I was joking about this? I rarely joke."

"I know that much." She sighs, "Okay, I'll give you guys a break, but how about at least, today, we try to find this guy. It's not as though we can help him control his powers if we don't even know who he is. Do you have the file, Sirena?"

Sirena shrugs, "Yeah, I have his file, but it got sent over to Rita's house—"

"Rita?" Lyla scrunches her eyebrows, before remembering, "Oh, right, the woman who's agreed to take us in."

"The _mermaid _disguised as a human, who's agreed to take us in," Nixie corrects her. "That seems interesting enough." She leans across the table, voice almost whispering, "What do you think happened to her?"

Lyla almost laughs, "I never pegged you to be one interested in gossip."

Nixie rolls her eyes, "Well, you don't even know who I am, so how could you know? For all that you know, I could be the gossip expert of the Pod. Anyway—" She shoots up, suddenly, eyes scanning across the café, eyes fixed on a sole person. "That's him."

Raising her eyebrows—a common habit, albeit a non-malicious one—Lyla lazily follows Nixie's line of sight, eyes dropping upon a human boy, face turned to them, before turning back to his friend. Sirena quickly pulls out a piece of paper from her backpack, and stands up suddenly, as though she's completely assured of herself; Nixie quickly drags Sirena's wrist down, whispering in her ear with a tight smile on her face. "What the hell do you think you're doing? I'm not even sure if that's the boy. It might not be. It's probably not. Don't listen to me, I was just thinking aloud. And even if I was right, it's not as though you can just approach the boy and say I'm your bodyguard. I'm going to help you control your magical mermaid powers. You can't do that."

Sirena shrugs, "You can't tell me what to do." She walks quickly in the direction of the Target, and Nixie buries her face in her hands; Lyla turns her head to the window, hoping that she's not associated with Sirena.

"Sirena!" Nixie whisper-screams, to no avail.

"I can't believe she's doing this," Lyla whispers, "I swear, Sirena's gone insane."

Nixie stares at the floor, "For once, I think you're right." Footsteps approach the table and without looking up, "I can't believe you were actually stupid enough to take that would work, Sirena. Next time, you should follow the proper mission procedure—_oh_." Target 1 and Target's Friend are standing next to Sirena, matching amused expressions on their face. _Crap._

* * *

Headlights shine through the darkness of disillusionment; it's a bit of a vague concept, really, but she can see the outlines of something great happening and thinks it will be enough for a while. Evie dusts off the sheet of music in front of her—the sixteenth notes are a bit muddled into the rests, but the composition's scratch work, nothing else. Settling back into the off-white leather chair at BMO Harris Bank, she stares blankly at the surroundings—her parents, business associates of Dale (yes, the Dale who invented toaster strudel and the paper clip) are on the upper floor, their voices thick with British accents echoing until the slam of a door is heard.

She sighs, pressing the tips of her fingers to her forehead, and stands up, quickly assembling her SAT vocabulary flashcards back into her cream Prada, taking a deep breath of fear and anxiety as her mother approaches. "So," Evie smiles hesitantly, "Are we heading back into the city or maybe the Hamptons?"

"Darling," her mother draws out the word—Natasha Worthington had always been one for dramatic effect. "How about we discuss this over lunch? My treat. We can even try out that sushi place."

"Sushi?" Evie wrinkles her nose. "I hate seafood. Actually, I think I'm allergic to it. And since when have we not eaten at home, at the penthouse?"

"We can have this talk over lunch," Natasha says in a clipped tone, in an end-of-discussion sort of voice.

"Yeah, whatever. I don't even care where we eat."

* * *

Thirty minutes later, the three of them are in a posh-looking restaurant; Evie's never been here before, and mindlessly stabs her fork into the coral plate, moving the lettuce and watermelon strips across the plate, wondering if her parents will ever notice that she wants more than this: the wealth is nice and all, but a somewhat normal family would be a better settlement.

A settlement, that's what it feels like; it feels like she's settling for less. "So, dear," her mother leans across the table. "You know how we've been investing money in what's his name—"

"Warren. Warren Bulton," her father quickly interrupts. "Warren Bulton is one of the recent graduates of this year's Wharton graduate class—if you don't know what Wharton is, it's the best business graduate school in the world, if you can even begin to fathom that—and he opened up this business. He's not of old money, if you know what I mean, but the idea, the idea was very good."

"You guys are boring me," Evie drawls out. "So, if you don't mind—"

"We do mind, actually. Your mother and I have something to discuss with you, and this is very important, and the least you could do is try to pretend that you care about your future."

Evie makes a face, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, fine. Make it quick though, okay? I'm meeting up with Zac later." It's a lie, but she enjoys the way that her father's hands ball into fists. Her parents had never been particularly keen on Zac—not when he had been her classmate (they had always made snide remarks about the Blakely's and how they had absolutely no class whatsoever, no manners, no grace), not when he had been her friend (_You shouldn't spend so much time with a boy who's basically failing his classes, _her mother had remarked), _especially _not when he became her boyfriend.

"The investment didn't pay off," her father quickly says. "It didn't pay off and we lost all the money. We're thinking that we might have to sell some of our assets, but it's not too bad—"

"I'm leaving," she declares quickly. This is the sort of thing that happens in movies and in television shows—houses are closed with foreclosure, or something messed up like that, and suddenly lives are thrown into disarray—and sooner or later, the rich princess type girl would find herself in an orphanage after her parents tragically committed suicide from the top of the Sears tower.

Or maybe that was just the way it was in Asian dramas.

* * *

She finds herself wandering the streets, feet dragging in ruby-red flats across the sidewalks—high heels would have been a better option, but Evie feels confident enough with the Calvin Klein sunglasses (cheap, but cute) clouding half of her face.

Barrio Chino's a Mexican restaurant, on the Lower East Side. The only reason Evie had even come here was because it had been a complete mistake; then again, peering into the somewhat translucent windows, the familiar tuft of black hair stands out and she enters the store. Not before adjusting her hair and applying a new coat of burgundy red lipstick, of course.

"Uh, Zac?" She taps the boy's shoulder, feigning a smile. "Who are your new friends?"

All three of them look extremely suspicious—one of the only real advantages of living on the Upper East Side (besides the constant paparazzi and free Louboutins) was that everybody ended up knowing who everybody else was. Newcomers weren't really an option, but it was the only explanation for the three girls in front of her who looked like fish out of water.

They were donning identical outfits—tarnished red dresses from Ralph Lauren that were two seasons old—and stare at her as though they have no idea what anything is, sort of blurred and hazy. "Uh, are you guys high or something?" She blurts out.

Zac lets out a small laugh, "That's what I thought when I first met them. Apparently they're from out-of-state, though; they're Principal Rita's kids."

Evie rolls her eyes, "Principal Rita doesn't even have any kids. I would know, it would be the talk of the school, scandal of the city especially since she's not even married."

"Does she have to be married?" The tall, sickly blonde one speaks up; Evie immediately dislikes her, from her nasally tone to the way her size nine feet stick out of a pair of bright blue flip-flops. Seriously, how old were they: eleven? Even she knew eleven year olds with better choice.

"Well, she's not, and that's all that matters." She clenches her hands, turning towards Zac, "What are you doing here?"

"Getting some Mexican food for the party."

"St. Jude's is having a party with Mexican food?" St. Jude's was this private school on the Upper East Side that was known for having the most elaborate parties ever, even more ostentatious than Constance Billiard's, which was saying something. And saying that St. Jude's would want avocado and tacos at one of their parties was one of the worst lies Zac had ever told her, not that she was counting or anything. "Or is this some sort of Lost Weekend thing?"

"Course not," he responds quickly, almost a little too quickly. "Lost Weekends are banned, anyway, and nobody's going to risk getting expelled." Zac pauses, "Except Cam," he adds.

"Cam?" Evie raises an eyebrow. "I thought that he was in rehab."

"Who told you that?"

"You did."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Well, he's back; he was actually here a few minutes ago but then his mom put this tracking device on his phone and located him here. Yeah, I'm not sure if they're planning on sending him back."

"Uh, hello?" The shortest one interrupts, hands on hips as though she's some sort of model for a business corporation. "Not meaning to bother your ever so important conversation, but where are we supposed to go?"

"Where did you say you were from?" Evie turns towards the three girls; the waifish blonde one, the one without a horse-like face, shirks back a bit, and Evie immediately smiles at the way she seems to inspire fear wherever she goes. It's a nice feeling, to be in control of others.

"We didn't say."

"Well Zac," she looks toward the boy who looks almost more out-of-place than the girls do. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?"

"This is Lyla, this is Nixie, this is Sirena. This is Evie, my girlfriend."

"Welcome to the Upper East Side," she says in a way she hopes is not at all welcoming. "Well, if you're even living on the Upper East Side. If you're going to be living with your mother, you'll be on the Upper West Side."

"Thanks," Sirena smiles weakly.

Evie rolls her eyes—nice girls finish last, and the innocent, doe-eyed act that Sirena was pulling was really annoying. "We should have lunch together, get to know each other sometime."

"Evie," Zac says in a warning tone.

She lays a reassuring hand on his arm, giving him a shut-up look. Lyla looks her in the eye, "How about now?"

"Now?" Evie raises an eyebrow. Her parents would be waiting back at the penthouse, but then again, how better to piss them off than to never show up? After all, these new girls seemed a million times more interesting (or, at least, ruining them) than receiving the same "You should know better" lecture she had heard from Natasha a million times. "Sure. But not here. I know this great place with pecan tarts uptown."

"Gramercy Tavern?" Zac looks at her as though she's gone insane. "I thought you said you hated this place."

"Silly, why would I hate Gramercy? It's exceptional, a quintessential New York restaurant!" At least that's what it said on the Google Maps description; she had been here a few times before, usually with Natasha's posse. And for some reason or another, Evie has the urge to show these newcomers who's queen bee if they're interested in taking the role away from her.

Of course, it's the beginning of the summer holidays; the house in the Hampton's was out of question until her parents' financial issues were solved, and Carly—blonde, known for making impulsive decisions, not too rich, but most importantly, her best frenemy, but currently her best friend—was away in London, no doubt trying to audition for the Royal Ballet School.

Ballet had been Carly's latest obsession, and her mother Ivy was willing to spend all the money in the world (or at least in the Waverly bank account) to make sure that her daughter was happy.

Of course, the family had lived in Tibet for the past year or so, and how much they moved around was always a befuddling mess. Sometimes Evie wanted a mother like that, a somewhat distant one who cared a little too much. "Anyway," she pauses before entering the atmosphere sprayed with Chanel perfume, rose smelling, "It's a great place to sum up the Upper East Side."

Zac gives her another incredulous expression, "Yeah, if you say so."

* * *

Gramercy Tavern is actually horrible.

Zac was right—Evie can't think of a reason (besides the fact that she needed to prove her superiority to these newcomers) that she had chosen the place for lunch. At least she could have chosen something better, but her thoughts were mindless, scattered across her brain the way that thoughts are meant to be, instead of their typical arranged settlements.

"I'll go find us seats," Lyla pipes up, seeming eager to please the new hosts. Evie rolls her eyes (and subconsciously wonders if she's going to get some strain on her eye muscles from rolling them so much) at the act the girl's putting on.

"You can't do that," she sighs. These girls had so much to learn; they were so lucky to have her. "Rule number one of the Upper East Side: whenever you're eating, you need reservations."

"Reservations?" Sirena tilts her head to the side, obviously befuddled by the concept.

"God, where did you guys come from, Kansas?" The three girls share an uneasy silence, exchanging a look of importance between themselves. "Never mind," Evie brushes it off. "I'll go get us seats."

They're sitting near the back of the restaurant, a gold and silver chandelier precariously dangling above them, when Lyla and Sirena decide that they'll have two cheesecakes and a taco. To which Evie replies as quickly as possible, positively embarrassed at her charity cases, that tacos are for the Lower East Side, and only for the Lower East Side.

"I'll have everything," Nixie decides.

The waiter, James Webster, a boy from school, raises his eyebrows in amusement, "Are you sure about that?"

"I'll order une salade avec la vinaigrette," Evie quickly fills the silence. "And the girls will have the same. Ignore whatever they said."

Who actually ate everything? None of the girls looked particularly skinny, especially Nixie who looked as though she needed a few extra inches of height to keep up with her two siblings. "I'll have chocolate pecan tarts and lobster," Zac decides.

Evie sighs. Though Zac's family, the Blakely's, were of old money, Zac was constantly trying to separate himself from his parent's money, some phase of wanting independence. Evie hoped that he would outgrow it, because from his current outfit (Hugo Boss jeans and Aeropostale sweatshirt) he might as well have been born and raised on the Upper West Side. "That'll be it," she smiles sweetly at the waiter, who quickly leaves. "So, where are you girls from?"

"We're from the Pacific Ocean," Sirena smiles back as though she's never been sad in her life.

Evie laughs, "The Pacific Ocean?"

"They mean that their parents were traveling, uh, in the ocean. And they brought their children with them; bit of a weird education, I know," Zac shrugs.

Evie narrows her eyes. Why was Zac covering for three girls who he barely knew? Maybe he knew them, but why wouldn't he just tell her that? Then again, he hasn't had much of a chance to do so. "I thought that your mother is Principal Rita."

"Rita's actually our relative."

"Uh, huh. So, I'm assuming that you're going to be at Constance Billiard?"

"Actually," Lyla says, "We're only going to be here until our mission is complete."

"Your mission?"

"She means that we're going to be here for three months," Nixie quickly covers up. "So I doubt that we're going to be in school here."

"You should go to school here, if you can afford it."

"If they're living on the Upper East Side, and if their relative is the Principal of Constance Billiard," Zac turns to Evie with a somewhat amused expression, "I'm sure that they can handle the fees for one year, maybe longer. How old did you guys say you were again?"

"Fifteen." Sirena's the fastest to respond.

"Sixteen," Nixie corrects, shooting an annoyed look at Sirena. Who was supposed to be the leader of this mission? Just because she had said that she wanted to have a little fun, it didn't mean that Sirena and Lyla shouldn't learn their places below her along the way.

"Three." Lyla remembers seeing that number somewhere on the sheet somewhere.

Evie laughs, "You guys are three years old? I highly doubt that."

Sirena blushes, "We mean that we're sixteen. Sixteen human years."

"You guys are so odd!" Evie exclaims. It's not the type of _Oh wow that's so wonderful _exclamation as much as _Oh, wow you're so cute, like that Brazilian goat that my mom brought over for the World Cup party a few years back_. "Not in a mean way or anything." It totally is.

"Thanks?" Sirena smiles hesitantly.

"You're welcome." A buzz from her phone resounds—_Tibet_ _is totally awesome, you should visit sometime! Anyways, happy 16th to me and I'll be back before you know it (or if you want some exact date, before the White Party) xoxo C—_and Evie's lips curve downwards. Carly was probably her best friend; they had known each other since the first grade, made blood oaths in the third, got matching piercings in the sixth, dated the same guy in the ninth, and then out of the blue, Carly's father got a place in Tibet and the whole family emigrated there.

Everything had been almost perfect since Carly left; Zac had barely even mentioned her name once in the past few months. "What was that?" He asks.

"Oh, nothing much," Evie brushes the thoughts away. "Nobody important. But the three of you...the three of you are very interesting indeed. Why did you come here, anyway, after all this time?"

They stare at each other in silence for a few moments, and look relieved when the food arrives—big steaming platters with bite-sized foods, oregano and basil leaves sprinkled on top of the spinach leaves, saturated in a Parmesan cheese liquid. "Do you guys really eat this little?" Lyla casts her an incredulous expression.

"Not that this is little or anything," Sirena hastily says. "I mean, we really do appreciate you bringing us to this restaurant and paying for us. It's just that back home we usually ate a lot more food."

Evie smiles sweetly, "I can tell." Zac raises an eyebrow at her, a sort of admonishing expression crossing his face, and Evie rolls her eyes because he's her boyfriend, not her father. Then again, her father doesn't hold much of a spot of respect in her mind, at least not anymore. "But around here, this is the average serving size. Anyways, you never answered my question."

"What question?" Nixie attempts to bat her eyelashes innocently; Evie refrains from scoffing, because that expression of naiveté barely works on Sirena, as it is. "Oh, right. Uh, our parents died."

"Oh." That wasn't really the answer Evie was expecting, and the guilt overwhelms her, slowly, and then all at once. "It gets better."

The smoky scent of fire lingers on her clothes long after the chocolate pecan tarts have disappeared off the table.

* * *

**okay, so i know that in most mako mermaid fics, or at least the ones that i've read on fanfiction so far, tend to antagonize evie, and i don't really think of her character like that—she's just a normal teenage girl who's really annoyed that her boyfriend's keeping secrets from her, and maybe even to the extent of wondering if zac is slipping away from her.**

**HEADS UP: this story will be around nineteen chapters if everything goes according to plan, maybe an epilogue at the end. anyway, i plan to update this about once or twice a month, because it is summer break, but the chapters are a bit long so it's hard to have consistent lengths and updates but i will try.**

**thanks so much for reading—and reviews would be lovely.**

**—clara. **


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